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Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
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master bedroom led out into a wide upper hall paneled in dark, intricately carved wood. This town house had been in the Caire family since his grandfather’s time. It wasn’t in the most fashionable part of London anymore, but it was big and grand and fairly reeked of old money and power. Lazarus descended the stairs, trailing his hand down the pink banister. The stone was imported from Italy, carved and polished until it shone nearly like a mirror. He should feel something touching the cold, smooth stone, he knew. Pride perhaps? Or nostalgia? But instead he felt as he always did.
Nothing at all.
He reached the lower hall and took his cape and tricorne from the butler. Outside it was windy, the chairmen shivering a bit as they waited for him. His sedan chair wasnew, especially built for his height, the outside enameled in black and silver, the inside fitted with plush crimson cushions. One of the men held the top open as Lazarus stepped between the rails to enter. The front door was shut and latched and the top lowered. The men hefted the chair, and then they were jogging through the London streets.
Lazarus wondered idly what had caused his mother to summon him. Would she ask for more money? That seemed unlikely since she had a generous allowance from him as well as a few estates of her own. Perhaps she’d taken up gambling in her waning years. He snorted aloud at the thought.
The chairmen halted and Lazarus descended. The town house he’d bought for his mother was small but fashionable. She’d complained—still complained—when he’d forced her to move out of Caire House, but he’d be damned if he’d live with the woman.
Inside, the butler escorted Lazarus to an outrageously gilded sitting room. There he sat for a good half hour, contemplating the golden curlicues on the top of the Corinthian columns guarding the door. He would’ve left but then he’d merely have to repeat this farce another day. Best to get it over with.
She entered the room as she always did—pausing just a fraction of a second inside the doorway to let the full impact of her beauty fill those within with awe.
Lazarus yawned.
She tittered, the sound not quite hiding the anger beneath. “Have you lost all sense of propriety, my son? Or is it fashionable now to no longer rise on a lady’s entrance?”
He rose with just enough languor to make the movement an insult, and then bowed as briefly as possible. “What do you want, my lady?”
Which was a mistake, of course. Showing his impatience only gave her reason to draw this meeting out.
“Oh, Lazarus, must you be so rude?” She lowered herself to carefully lounge on one of the delicately painted settees. “It becomes tiresome. I’ve ordered tea and cakes and such”—she waved a hand vaguely—“so you must stay for that at least.”
“Must I?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice making the two words grit.
A fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her beautiful face, but then she said firmly, “Oh, I think so.”
Lazarus sat back down, conceding for the moment to his lovely, vapid mother. He watched her as they waited for the promised tea. He hated tea, always had. Did she not know or—more likely—did she serve it to him merely to provoke?
Lady Caire had been a famous beauty in her youth, and time had been gracious to her. Her face was a perfect, serene oval, her neck long and graceful. Her eyes were like his, a clear blue, faintly tilted at the corners. The forehead above was white and unmarred. Her hair was the same startlingly premature white as his own, but instead of trying to dye it or wearing a wig, she flaunted the unusual color. She favored dark blue gowns to highlight the white and wore black or dark blue caps, decorated with lace and jewels.
She had always known how best to draw the eye.
“Ah, here’s the tea,” his mother said as two maids entered bearing trays. Was there relief in her voice?
The servants set the repast silently and then quietly
Nothing at all.
He reached the lower hall and took his cape and tricorne from the butler. Outside it was windy, the chairmen shivering a bit as they waited for him. His sedan chair wasnew, especially built for his height, the outside enameled in black and silver, the inside fitted with plush crimson cushions. One of the men held the top open as Lazarus stepped between the rails to enter. The front door was shut and latched and the top lowered. The men hefted the chair, and then they were jogging through the London streets.
Lazarus wondered idly what had caused his mother to summon him. Would she ask for more money? That seemed unlikely since she had a generous allowance from him as well as a few estates of her own. Perhaps she’d taken up gambling in her waning years. He snorted aloud at the thought.
The chairmen halted and Lazarus descended. The town house he’d bought for his mother was small but fashionable. She’d complained—still complained—when he’d forced her to move out of Caire House, but he’d be damned if he’d live with the woman.
Inside, the butler escorted Lazarus to an outrageously gilded sitting room. There he sat for a good half hour, contemplating the golden curlicues on the top of the Corinthian columns guarding the door. He would’ve left but then he’d merely have to repeat this farce another day. Best to get it over with.
She entered the room as she always did—pausing just a fraction of a second inside the doorway to let the full impact of her beauty fill those within with awe.
Lazarus yawned.
She tittered, the sound not quite hiding the anger beneath. “Have you lost all sense of propriety, my son? Or is it fashionable now to no longer rise on a lady’s entrance?”
He rose with just enough languor to make the movement an insult, and then bowed as briefly as possible. “What do you want, my lady?”
Which was a mistake, of course. Showing his impatience only gave her reason to draw this meeting out.
“Oh, Lazarus, must you be so rude?” She lowered herself to carefully lounge on one of the delicately painted settees. “It becomes tiresome. I’ve ordered tea and cakes and such”—she waved a hand vaguely—“so you must stay for that at least.”
“Must I?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice making the two words grit.
A fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her beautiful face, but then she said firmly, “Oh, I think so.”
Lazarus sat back down, conceding for the moment to his lovely, vapid mother. He watched her as they waited for the promised tea. He hated tea, always had. Did she not know or—more likely—did she serve it to him merely to provoke?
Lady Caire had been a famous beauty in her youth, and time had been gracious to her. Her face was a perfect, serene oval, her neck long and graceful. Her eyes were like his, a clear blue, faintly tilted at the corners. The forehead above was white and unmarred. Her hair was the same startlingly premature white as his own, but instead of trying to dye it or wearing a wig, she flaunted the unusual color. She favored dark blue gowns to highlight the white and wore black or dark blue caps, decorated with lace and jewels.
She had always known how best to draw the eye.
“Ah, here’s the tea,” his mother said as two maids entered bearing trays. Was there relief in her voice?
The servants set the repast silently and then quietly
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